


Analgesia

by stilinstuck (superagentwolf)



Series: Paresthesia [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Peter Hale is Not Quite Evil, Possibly Inaccurate Facts for the Sake of Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/stilinstuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Analgesia: Noun; insensibility to pain without loss of consciousness. </p><p>-</p><p>Stiles returns to Beacon Hills for the summer after his freshman year of college. While at his psychiatrist's office, he meets Peter Hale, a strange man who seems all too relatable. These are the small moments that make up their friendship.</p><p>-</p><p>Violence tag is just in case; there are graphic scenes but I won't speak to my ability to write something gory. Advance knowing that there will be blood and bone within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

Stiles meets Peter on his first day of ‘therapy’.

The psychiatrist’s office has a play room that Stiles decides he’s going to like sitting in, moving painted wood beads around colorful metallic bars. He knows Dr. Day through friends- Lydia, mostly- but he’s never had the dubious pleasure of having a private session with the woman.

The clink of wood against metal brings an image of twisted limbs rushing back to him and he stops, staring determinedly at the blue bead beneath his fingers. _Stop._

“It isn’t going anywhere,” a silky voice says from the doorway.

Stiles looks up sharply, staring at the man. He forgets for a moment to cover his face, drop a façade over the hard lines of the killer lurking in his magic. His blooded face, a picture of loss and danger, is the reason he was sent in for therapy in the first place.

He covers it as quickly as possible but something tells him he wasn’t fast enough.

“Better safe than sorry,” Stiles says, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily.

The man doesn’t look convinced. He’s stocky but almost lean, the odd combination giving Stiles a lupine impression. The wolfish quality is carried into his blue eyes, light brown hair and lazy grin. He looks _dangerous_ in the best way. He’s ridiculously attractive.

The thought alone makes Stiles pause.

“Come here often?” the man asks silkily, slipping into the room with an air of ease and confidence.

The line should sound unbelievably stupid but coming from the stranger it’s just the right kind of suave and ironic.

“Yeah…no. Nope. At the risk of sounding cliché, I shouldn’t even be here.”

The man studies Stiles’ face and he looks as if he’s trying to find something- maybe the trace of darkness he’d seen when he entered the room.

“I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Stiles pauses as he slides a bead, resting his chin on a dip in a metal bar. He hums, appraising the man. The man raises his eyebrow.

“Hale!” Stiles snaps, jerking upright. He’s realized what the whole lupine-eyebrow-killer combo is. The man is a Hale, Stiles is certain. He’s also sure that the man is Peter. Peter, the crazy uncle.

“…excuse me,” the man says and there’s only a hint of stiffness in his voice as he straightens, blue eyes piercing.

Stiles isn’t intimidated. Just to prove it, he tilts his head defiantly downwards, knowing the werewolf body-language message will translate. He’s not a subordinate no matter how human he is.

“I went to school with Cora and Malia,” Stiles offers, watching the man’s eyes glint at the defiant move. Stiles _knows_ he used to be an Alpha. He also knows the man probably suffers from severe PTSD and anger issues.

He knows about the Hale fire. He felt it. He was there.

No one knows that, though.

“You’re Stiles,” the man says slowly and his smile returns, predatory.

“I am. I guess you’re…Peter,” Stiles finally guesses, certain it’s the name he’s heard the girls use. _Peter. The unstable one._

“I am,” Peter replies smoothly, sliding into a chair. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah, imagine that. Two fucked up citizens of the night,” Stiles snorts.

Peter looks surprised for a moment but then he shifts in his seat, appraising again.

“Hmm. I thought you were human.”

_Challenge. Challenge accepted_ , Stiles thinks to himself. He knows how Alphas work and even though Peter may have lost that title, he is still every inch an Alpha. Peter is out for blood, Stiles thinks, and there is only one way to meet a man with a knife.

Bring a gun.

“Oh, sure. But Kate destroyed most of the reigning Pack in Beacon Hills.”

Silence invades the room. Stiles knows Peter won’t attack, not in daylight in a public office. He also knows that Peter can find out where Stiles lives, can essentially attack anywhere else. The rage and blood rising in Peter’s eyes tells Stiles that _something_ will happen. He just isn’t sure what.

“Little Red,” Peter drawls, the word extending as he smiles with his teeth. “Careful going home.”

When Peter leaves, Stiles watches him go, vaguely aware that his pupils are dilating with magic. The bead between his fingers cracks.

 

* * *

 

Stiles gets out of his session too late for his tastes. Thirty minutes of going nowhere had led Dr. Day to release him, conceding the point that a session directly after Stiles’ flight home was a bad idea. Either way Stiles is tired when he gets out.

_I hope Peter isn’t too close,_ Stiles thinks to himself as he climbs into his Jeep. He knows the man is probably waiting somewhere. Peter doesn’t seem the type to wait very long.

Sure enough, Stiles sees a shape in the road as he drives home. The street is empty and lined with trees, rain glittering on the pavement. It’s getting dark and he can barely make out the bloody remains set like a Christmas gift in the center of the dotted line.

“Classy,” Stiles murmurs, turning off his engine. He doesn’t want to waste battery on the encounter.

Stiles knows what’s going to happen. He leaves his bat in the back of his open Jeep, handle propped conveniently outwards.

“Come here often?” Peter chuckles darkly, emerging from the tree line.

Stiles is mildly jealous at how good Peter makes dumb clichés sound. Aside from his words, though, Peter just _looks_ like a walking horror story. His fingertips are stained with blood, wolfed-out and wickedly sharp. He has blood splatter on his face and neck and Stiles thinks his glowing eyes are dark in their shine.

“Only when the drinks are free,” Stiles mocks, tilting his head. He shifts his weight as he speaks, moving it towards the balls of his feet so he’s ready to run.

Peter laughs and snarls and Stiles _sprints_ with the wolf on his heels, skidding artfully around his car with practice. The handle of the bat is cold in his hands and he slides it out of the car as he moves, sliding like a baseball player so that he swings around to face Peter.

Peter’s coming around the corner and Stiles is ready, momentum working with him as he swings the bat right at Peter’s head.

The _crack_ of impact echoes on the street and Stiles grits his teeth, trying not to feel the rush of adrenaline and triumph flooding his system. It makes something dangerous rise in his chest and he tries to tamp it down, ignoring the flow.

“Okay. Time to go,” Stiles huffs, grip loosening and tightening on his bat. He’s reluctant to let it go.

After he stows the bat he returns to Peter’s prone body. He tries to lift him.

“Ugh. _Je_ sus,” Stiles huffs, grunting as he tries to lift the werewolf. “Okay. Magic. Magic is good.”

His pupils dilate ever so slightly and he straightens, the burden instantly lifted. Once he gets Peter into the car he rotates his arms, sighing. He’s not a fan of augmentation but the world sure does like making him use it a lot.

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes up on Stiles’ couch.

Technically it’s the Stilinski’s couch but currently the Sheriff is away on vacation so Stiles has the house to himself.

Peter growls lowly and Stiles rolls his eyes, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of food.

“Hey, Creeper Wolf. You doin’ all right?”

The answering snarl makes Stiles bite back a smile. He knows better than to antagonize a Hale. Too much.

“…did that bat have Wolfsbane in it?” Peter asks, voice rough. He sounds like he has a hangover.

Which, Stiles thinks, is not entirely inaccurate.

“Wolfsbane. Mountain ash. Some other secrets of my supernatural crime-fighting cocktail.”

Peter grunts, swinging his legs off the couch as he sits up. Stiles goes back to the kitchen to get his own plate, mouth watering at the scent of falafel. He’s usually hungry (he’s a college kid), but magic makes him _really_ hungry.

“This is fantastic,” Peter says after taking a bite of his sandwich. He sounds pleased.

“Glad you like it. Greek is my new addiction. Someone should stop giving me access to the kitchen.”

“I vote no,” Peter submits, muffled through a mouth filled with food.

Stiles grins. Somehow it makes him feel warm inside that the werewolf that was trying to kill him a few hours ago is complimenting his food. He wonders what that says about his mental state.

“So. Guess we got things sorted out,” Stiles says and it’s not a question.

“Mmmn. Why have _you_ been graced with Dr. Day’s tender care?”

Stiles pauses, a grape leaf clutched in his hand where it was making its way to his mouth. He sets it down, shifting in his seat to face Peter.

“Someone decided I had a bad case of serial-killer face.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, biting into his falafel.

“Seems preemptive. Was that all?”

“Well. I killed something recently.”

“Someone,” Peter corrects him but it’s more of an understanding than a correction. As if he thinks Stiles is deflecting.

“Some _thing_ ,” Stiles repeats firmly. “It wasn’t human. It just looked like it.”

“Ah. Creature of the night,” Peter murmurs and Stiles knows the man has experienced the same thing.

That’s the thing about werewolves. They toe the line. Not quite human, not quite animal. They’re by far the most experienced with the frustration of day and night life. God knows the Hale fire was difficult to cover up.

“Creature of the night,” Stiles agrees tiredly, sighing deeply as he finishes his food.

 

* * *

 

Peter sits next to Stiles on Monday.

The man emerges from Dr. Day’s office and he immediately makes a beeline to the kids’ room where Stiles is playing with wooden blocks. They’re very antique and horror movie-esque, much to Stiles’ delight.

“I see you’ve graduated to architecture,” Peter says drily as he sinks gracefully into a padded chair.

Stiles’ legs are crossed and he rocks side to side, trying to see his structure from every angle.

“It was the natural step for a gifted child such as myself,” Stiles says mockingly.

He’s not sure why being around Peter makes him so openly acerbic but to be honest, he enjoys the freedom of not having to keep up appearances.

“Sounds like you’ve been told this before,” Peter says mildly, holding a rubber duck between two fingers. The image makes Stiles want to laugh.

“Oh, yes. It’s usually followed by a caveat about my disorder.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes and when the receptionist comes in to call Stiles, Peter squeezes the rubber duck in his hand.

“Don’t let them get the best of you.”

It’s oddly comforting, coming from an unstable werewolf.

 

* * *

 

“We’re having problems with a witch,” Malia says bluntly.

“O…kaaaay…?” Stiles replies, pausing as he bites into a croissant.

It’s eleven in the morning and he’s eating in a coffee shop with Malia. She’s extremely tired and apparently desperate for help.

“This _witch_ is ruining my sleep,” she gripes. Her lack of swearing has something to do with a jar and the fact that Laura is apparently one hundred percent on board with the fines.

“Well, I can’t guarantee anything but I can certainly come take a look,” Stiles offers.

He follows Malia back to the Hale house, his backpack of supplies sitting comfortably on the seat next to him. It’s barely one o’clock by the time they arrive and the sun is out in full force.

“Stiles! Honey, how _are_ you?” Laura asks, immediately hugging him as she comes out of the house.

Stiles grins as he returns the hug. Laura is like a big sister or a mother to him and he always loves seeing her. Lately he’s been away too long so it’s nice to see her again.

His relationship with Laura has always been complicated. For now, he’s just glad to see that’s she’s being friendly.

“I’m good. Malia tells me you’re dealing with a witch.”

“Ugh, you got _that_ right. She’s giving us the run-around and we don’t have the tools to track her.”

“Guess that’s where I come in,” Stiles winks, crouching by the front door.

He exhales slowly, reaching for the tranquil place in his mind. It comes, tentative but _there_ and he almost sighs in relief.

With his recent psychiatric visits, he’s felt a little less stable than usual.

He can feel his wards, barely two years old, rising to meet him. When he opens his eyes he knows his pupils are dilated, thin gold rings around them glowing with magic. He’s seen his eyes once, in a mirror, when he was practicing a glamour. He’d almost broken the mirror with magic.

“How are they holding?” Malia asks and Laura swats at her.

“Shhh,” Laura scolds Malia but Stiles laughs, shaking his head.

“I don’t need silence,” he reminds them, flexing his fingers. The lines hovering above the ground pulse a shimmery gold. “They’re fine. They’ve been keeping her out, I think.”

“So where do you need to look for traces?” Laura asks, leaning against the porch rail.

“Probably nearby. Edge of the trees, maybe,” Stiles ponders, shading his eyes as he gazes out at the forest.

“We’ll go with you. Better safe,” Laura says, jerking her chin. Malia turns to lock the house.

“Can I join the reindeer games?” A familiar voice issues from the doorway and Stiles pivots, turning to see Peter.

“You’re awake,” Laura says and the tenseness in her voice does not escape Stiles.

He’s curious. He’s been wondering why Peter would be a secret to him, if maybe the man didn’t live with his family. He doesn’t remember hearing about Peter _before_. He may be wrong, though.

“Ah. Creeper Wolf. Perfect,” Stiles says, waving Peter forward. Laura blinks and he swears it’s the closest he’s seen her to shocked.

Even Malia looks wary.

“What would you like me to do, Red?” Peter asks and Stiles bites back a smile.

He’s enjoying the nickname. More than he should, really, considering the connotation. When Peter says it, though, it sounds a little less childish and a little more dangerous.

“I’m scouting for a witch, so I might trigger some traps. You all are not allowed to try and rescue me; the traps are probably made specifically for werewolves. If something happens, toss this to me,” Stiles explains, pressing a pouch into Peter’s hand.

He doesn’t tell them what it is. It generally doesn’t go over well with others.

The group set out and Stiles lets the wards on the property lift as he passes them, soft and gold. He wants to extend the protection into the woods but he knows it’s not time yet. As he walks, he keeps an eye on the ground.

His lowered gaze is what really does him in.

There’s a snap and a glint of light and Stiles throws his arm out, barely registering as the werewolves backpedal. In a fraction of a second he sees something falling down towards him, the telltale shine of metal registering just a little too late.

The knife grazes his shoulder and he hisses, watching it fall to the ground. There’s blue liquid mingled with his blood. _Wolfsbane._

“Are you all right?” Malia asks tensely.

“Fine. It was Wolfsbane,” he explains, crouching to examine the knife. It’s clearly poisoned and there’s a sprig of Wolfsbane tied to the handle, a few drops of blue liquid remaining in the groove of the knife.

“Should we keep walking if there are _knives_ falling on our heads?” Malia questions, kicking the blade.

“You’re welcome to run home with your tail between your legs,” Stiles teases.

They continue on their way and Stiles looks up, doubly cautious as he walks in front. Nothing happens for a long time and then he stops dead, feeling an inherent sense of something _wrong_.

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles mutters, looking around. There’s a faint groove by his foot. Faint, but visible. “ _Shit_.”

Stiles pivots quickly, eyes shifting, and raises his arm in an arc. The gold of his magic crackles like a spray of water and he forces the wolves backwards, throwing them at least a hundred feet. Just as they fly back he senses a ripple in the earth, the shadow of black magic approaching him with a vengeance.

He can barely hear his name being called as the black magic hits him, shockwave forcing him off his feet and into a tree. When his head hits he feels a moment of blackness, ears ringing as his vision cuts for a moment.

“…s...iles….Stiles,” Laura says insistently and Stiles blinks the stars from his eyes, gasping in a breath.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Malia is asking and Stiles shakes his head, instantly nauseous.

“You need to go back,” Stiles manages, trying to get his feet under him. “It’s here. It’s not a witch, it’s-,”

He doesn’t get to finish because a figure emerges from behind the tree he’s leaning against and it lifts him by the neck, hand cold as ice and burning against his flesh.

“ _No!_ ” Laura growls and she tries to approach but the _thing_ lifts an arm and throws her back.

Stiles scrabbles against the hand holding him, feet kicking against the tree at his back. He knows the statistics for being choked to death, knows what little time he has. It’s not comforting.

He manages to get an arm hooked around the creature’s elbow and he yanks, hard, magic fueling the pull. There’s a dry _snap_ and he’s released, gasping thinly as he swings around the tree and out of reach.

“ _Go_ ,” Malia snarls, grabbing him off the ground and pulling him to his feet. She’s already wolfed out.

Behind them, the others are trying to fight. Stiles knows it won’t work.

The creature is, loosely put, a corrupted witch. It’s something between a demon and a ghost. Intangible, except to other magic users and _incredibly_ powerful.

Thankfully Stiles came prepared.

He shakes his head and shrugs Malia off, ignoring her protests as he sprints towards the fight.

“ ** _Peter_** _!_ ” Stiles roars and the werewolf automatically responds to the magic. He responds surprisingly well, in fact, and Stiles makes a mental note to explore that fact later.

The bag in Peter’s hand flies towards Stiles and the creature turns, fast but not fast enough.

When Stiles catches the bag he grins, chuckling darkly. He opens it and scoops the contents out, smearing the paste into the cut on his shoulder. _At least it’s already there._

It only takes a second to kick in.

“ **Right** ,” Stiles growls, rotating his shoulders. He plants his feet firmly, watching the Hales move back as they sense the crackling magic in his voice.

Peter is watching him intently.

The creature lunges and Stiles dodges, one hand shooting forward to grab the figure by the neck. It’s shadowy and dark but he can see its human form, vague and thin in the afternoon sun. When his fingers grip the creature’s neck it feels icy, burning him again. He ignores the pain, using his magic to strengthen him as he slams the creature to the ground.

“ **Stay,** ” he commands, a red-sneaker foot resting under the thing’s chin. He registers the Hales moving closer, tentative but ready. “ **Now. Show me what you were.** ”

He reaches down as if to pull off a mask and the creature’s black miasma dissolves around it, form revealing a thin man.

“ **So, witch. Where are you from?** ”

“…. field. Sofield,” the man spits, wriggling under Stiles’ foot.

“Sofield. I know that name,” Laura murmurs. The man laughs.

“Of course. The hunters know the Hales well,” the man chokes, trying again to move.

Stiles increases the pressure on his foot.

“ **You have one minute to explain yourself.** ”

The man laughs, choking as Stiles presses harder.

“You’ll never see it coming,” the man laughs. “The Alphas are going to tear you apart.”

Stiles growls but before he can act the man pulls something from his pocket, stabbing himself with it. Stiles jumps off the man, cursing as he watches the poisoned blade take effect.

“What was that?” Peter asks, stepping closer. He’s breathing heavily.

“A warning,” Stiles manages, shaking his head. He can feel his vision blurring.

“Stiles?” Peter asks.

“I need a drink.”


	2. Blind (Blood) Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets antsy sometimes. Luckily, a stray Alpha scout team is rolling through Beacon Hills.

It’s three in the morning and Stiles is itching for blood.

He tries to ignore it, practicing his meditation chants and breathing deeply. Nothing works and he rises from bed, irritated. He has his bat in hand within seconds, slipping into a dark jacket. He smiles as he pulls on his red sneakers, the familiar color tempering his edge.

He’s out the window in a matter of seconds, slipping down with practiced ease.

_Time for blood._

 

* * *

 

He goes to the woods. He knows it’s where the junkies go, the wannabe gangbangers looking to get respect.

Not the Hale territory, of course. The other side of town, where Stiles knows there are fewer police patrols because there aren’t many paved streets.

He blends into the trees easily, feeling at home as he slinks in the shadows.

It’s a wannabe that he runs into.

“You lookin’ for trouble?” the guy asks.

He’s got a mean look and sharp eyes and Stiles thinks the guy is in his twenties, a college dropout or a college failure who has too little brain and too much anger.

Stiles doesn’t answer.

“Get outta here,” the guy says, snorting as he shakes his head.

Stiles stands still, watching, head tilted. He isn’t afraid. He probably wouldn’t be if he knew the guy had a gun. Just careful. As it is, he doesn’t think the man has a gun and he also smells something burning that’s probably illegal.

“Hey, dumbass, what are you, deaf? I said _get outta here_ ,” the man repeats, suddenly incensed.

Stiles waits.

“Okay, punk, you wanna beating? Fine. I ain’t got _no_ problem putting you in your place.”

The man comes up fast but Stiles is faster. He sidesteps, sure on his feet. His bat is hidden behind a tree but he knows he won’t need it. _Besides- tonight I’m out for blood._

It’s all too easy to grab the man’s overextended arm, reeling him forward with enough momentum that when his face hits the tree it makes an audible crunching noise.

The man screams, reeling back. His nose is broken and Stiles watches the blood drip from the break, liquid and red.

The metallic scent is heavy in the air and Stiles can almost _taste_ it.

He laughs, not because it’s funny but because he feels the adrenaline and the triumph and the _rush_. The man doesn’t like his laughter, though, roaring as he charges at Stiles again. This time, Stiles lets the man come, instead blocking the punch.

He wants to get up close and personal.

Stiles lets a few hits land, rolling off as he turns his body. It feels good, almost like a jump start. He fights back, though, grimly satisfied when the man grunts and wheezes, Stiles’ hand impacting solid flesh and bone.

Stiles grabs the man’s wrist when he comes forward again. This time, he pulls and raises his knee.

The man’s arm breaks with a definitive _snap_.

His screams rise in the forest and Stiles blinks, tiny drops of blood clinging to his lashes. He swallows hard, taking a step back. Mentally and physically.

On the ground, the man cradles his arm.

Stiles sniffs, raising a hand to his face. He drops it after a second, looking up at the sky for a second. _What am I doing?_ He still doesn’t know the answer when he retrieves his bat, coming up on the collapsed figure.

“Please- please don’t-,”

“You’ll wake up,” Stiles says shortly and then he swings the bat at the back of the man’s head.

The body slumps to the ground and Stiles sniffs again, blinking to try and get the blood out of his eyelashes. It doesn’t work.

Before he leaves, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hundred. He drops it onto the unconscious man, nodding sharply.

“You’re not worth full price,” Stiles says to the limp man.

He doesn’t bother cleaning up, too free from the energy he’s released. Instead he climbs into his car (already covered in sheeting, he’s not stupid) and drives off to the Hales’ side of the forest. The drive doesn’t take long and soon enough he’s jumping out of his car again, laughing breathlessly as he enters a clearing.

His old beating grounds. He’d bought a dummy once, pilfered from the station’s trash.

It feels good to be there, in the forest, the moon shining brightly above him like an alien coin. He’s getting ready to pull his bat out, maybe hit a few things, when there’s a snap behind him.

“Stiles.”

Peter’s voice is deep and rough. It sounds different, Stiles thinks and not just because the man has probably just woken up.

No, his voice is different because he’s looking at Stiles with shining eyes, reflective like mirrors as he looks at the blood that’s still on his shirt.

“Peter.”

The name is more of an exhale on his lips. A sigh. _No more hiding. Not now._

Peter steps closer, careful but not cautious. His eyes sweep over Stiles, taking in the small, florid bruises and the bloody hands.

“Good night,” Peter says lowly.

“Oh, yes,” Stiles says, a grin cracking his face. “The best.”

Peter smiles back, all teeth.

 

* * *

 

“ _Be careful. They’re here,_ ” Laura says.

“Who’s here?”

He already knows the answer.

“ _Scouts. The Alpha Pack are hanging back; I don’t think they’ll come until they know for sure their lackeys can’t handle us._ ”

“We should roll out the welcome mat,” Stiles says.

He tries to keep his tone light but he knows if anyone were standing in the room, they’d shrink at the look on his face. As it is Laura is silent for a moment as if she knows what’s happening on the other end of the line.

“ _Just watch out. Be safe._ ”

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

He lied.

Okay, so not really _lied_ , Stiles thinks. It was actually just misleading. _I said ‘I will’_ , he thinks to himself. _I didn’t say what I would do._

Stiles, in true Stiles fashion, had not wanted to wait for the scouts to show up. He was sick of waiting, sick of letting others attack first.

Monday, in Dr. Day’s office, he sits outside the toy room.

“Red,” Peter greets him, an eyebrow cocked in silent question.

Stiles smiles, still riding the stress relief of his forest encounter. He knows what Dr. Day would say. _Negative release_. He really doesn’t think it’s negative if it works and no one was (permanently) hurt.

“Hey, Creeper Wolf.”

Peter catches onto Stiles’ smile quickly, sliding smoothly into the seat next to him. His eyes are sharp as he leans artistically sideways. How anyone can lean _artistically_ is beyond Stiles but hey, it’s Peter and Stiles _knows_ that’s the right word.

“So tell me,” Peter purrs, lips curved into a smirk. “Are you asking me out, Little Red?”

Stiles’ laughter rings like chimes in the office. He’s pleased. _I never have to explain with this one,_ he thinks happily.

“Share a dance, Creeper?”

“I’d like nothing more,” Peter hums, leg bumping Stiles’ knee as he crosses it. “So tell me. What’s the plan?”

 

* * *

 

It’s easy to find the scouts. Peter has a good nose and Stiles has a good idea of what areas are least likely to be found by transients and police.

The warehouse is silent and cold and Stiles likes the way it echoes the metal bat in his hand. He swings the bat with practiced motions, twirling it a little just to show any hidden observers that he means business.

“It was stupid of you to come here, human,” a man says. _Not a man. Werewolf._

“I’ll give you one chance,” Stiles says charitably. “You turn tail and report to your Alphas. Tell them they’re only going to get their asses kicked.”

The wolf snorts. He motions into the shadows and two more pop up, a woman and a teenager who looks like he’s taken one too many banned substances.

“Three to one,” the first man says. “Odds don’t look good.”

“You’re right,” Stiles sighs. “You’d need at least two more to even have a chance against me. And I’m sharing today.”

The man jerks, eyes quickly scanning the warehouse. A dark chuckle echoes in the building, bouncing and floating around.

“What’s wrong? Can’t tell where he is?” Stiles asks cheekily. “I personally love this trick. I’d call it ventriloquism, but it’s not like I’ve got my hand up his ass.”

“Manners, Stiles,” Peter laughs eerily.

“I rather like ‘the Oz Effect’,” Stiles grins, twirling the bat. “You know, scary magician dude.”

“I’m sick of this,” the woman says suddenly, eyes flashing an icy blue. “Gut him.”

The wolves attack and Stiles prepares, waiting. _Let the ball come to you._

It’s the teenager first, flying like a bull towards Stiles. He prepares, feeling the magic in his tattoos crawl across his back. He gains momentum like a train and when the bat connects, he smiles grimly. The teenager goes down like a stone, dropping to the concrete.

“Tag,” Stiles mutters, plastering a wolfsbane patch onto the wolf. “You’re it.”

His breath leaves him in a sudden _whoosh_ and he braces himself, sliding into the fall as the wolf clings to him. It’s the woman from the shadows.

“Per _sistent_ ,” Stiles hisses, twisting in her grasp. Her claws draw blood but he ignores it, kicking with a super-powered foot. “No means no!”

The woman grunts, skidding backwards. Stiles jumps to his feet fluidly, letting the magic buffer him.

“ _He’s one of them!_ ” the woman screams and her eyes, behind the anger making them sharp, are scared.

_What?_

The other man appears out of nowhere, Peter close behind. Stiles blinks, watching the woman charge at him.

They both rush at him and he frowns, watching Peter’s vaguely tense expression. Stiles waits, watches, and jumps.

The wolves crash into each other like some kind of outdated cartoon and Stiles hangs onto the beam above them, dangling carelessly. Peter shakes his head up at Stiles but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

“What the fuck was _that_?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t know,” Peter says easily, kicking the two werewolves to keep them down.

“Oh, hold on- move back,” Stiles cautions Peter, lifting his knees to his chest.

His magic buzzes like static. It builds like a charge and then he lets go of the beam, dropping with an audible _whoosh_ that ends in a _thump_. The werewolves groan in pain beneath him and he wrinkles his nose, keeping his hands away from the limp bodies he sits on.

“Dinner?” Peter asks, still biting back a ferocious smile as he offers a hand.

Stiles takes the help, winking as he rises.

“What a gentleman. Dinner it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short...  
> This is one thing I don't like about my writing sometimes. I write short chapters, I know! I'm thinking this fic will essentially be a collection of short scenes, though, because really my main focus is on the Stiles/Derek development from Hypermnesia and forward. Anyways. Enjoy!


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